A Quiet Happiness
by Sunburned-Stickperson
Summary: Shaun's always making fresh tea, even at the expense of ease. Desmond finally asks him why.


**SHIT SON. I didn't realize it had fucked up all the formatting. D: Gah. Here, the cleaner and easier to read version. Lesson learned, folks.  
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**pt. 2 pg. 15**

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><p>At first, Desmond thought that Shaun was crazy—crazy in the sense that carrying around a waist-high tea plant was completely impractical to their cause. He wondered if all British were as anal about their tea as Shaun was, and if they spent an hour every morning and every night preparing a—grapefruit-sized—teapot of tea from the freshly plucked leaves.<p>

Lucy dismissed the plant as the only living thing that was with them, a welcome sight among all the rush around them. It was a pretty green, and Desmond could only wish that Shaun would give him as much attention as he did that damn plant. Rebecca enjoyed it because of the color, adding a wonderful splash of color into the dreary settings of his ancestor's villa or the warehouse. She also liked talking to it when she got super bored—Desmond thought she was crazy, too, but then he realized talking to the plant gave it the gases it needed to survive, like a human needs oxygen. So, occasionally, when he woke from a nightmare, he started talking to the plant to calm himself down, and then he realized that a tea plant was an extremely good listener.

Nevertheless, it nearly drove him "batty" to see Shaun up every fucking morning and preparing a small pot of tea, drinking it from a small little teacup, and then repeating the ritual at night. He would watch him carefully—Shaun never put milk in it, always added some lemon juice if it were available, and usually forced himself to drink it all. Desmond knew he forced himself to, because sometimes Shaun would forget he had it, and then it would go cold, and instead of reheating, he would just dump it.

Sometimes, he envied the plant for all the attention it received.

One night, he was sitting on his sleeping bag at the villa, watching Shaun as he carefully plucked the leaves and went about making tea. When Shaun had finally settled back down with a cup in his hand and a slice of juiced lemon by his side, Desmond's curiosity got the better of him.

"Why do you put so much effort into such a ridiculous plant? It's massive!"

His eyes grew wide. He said a silent thanks that Shaun and he were actually starting to get along better. He heard a long, drawn out sigh and watched Shaun turn to face the newest assassin.

"Because fresh tea is so much healthier for you. And green tea is preferable because of all the health benefits."

Desmond's nose wrinkled, and he shifted on the sleeping bag. "But it requires so much care."

"It's well worth it in the end."

"Really."

"Yes, really." Shaun had picked up the pot and two cups—Desmond never understood why he always kept a second one nearby—and walked over, sitting beside him on the sleeping bag and pouring some in the second cup, offering it to him. "It lowers the amount of stress hormones and helps you sleep and think more clearly. It's said to help stave off cancer and raises your immune system. And with all this stress, I think a fresh cup each morning and night is warranted, don't you?"

Desmond stared at him blankly for a moment, then looked down at the cup Shaun was offering. "It tastes disgusting."

"Try it."

His lip curled in disgust. "You know, you are always nicer after you've just had a cup of that shit."

Shaun scowled. "Green tea is not 'shit,' and I think that you could benefit from it. I've tried to convince Lucy and Rebecca, but they just won't listen to me."

He reached out and took it slowly. When the cup was taken, Shaun lifted his own from the ground and took a sip, letting out a soft and contented sigh. "There are some lemon slices, if you'd like them, at my desk."

Desmond looked from the cup to Shaun, then raised it tentatively to his lips. "Don't you drink it with milk?"

"Milk blocks some of the healing properties, and soy milk is just flat out gross."

Desmond snickered at that.

"What?"

"'Gross' doesn't seem like something you'd say."

"There's no other way to accurately describe how much I loathe the taste of the imitation milk."

He chuckled and took a small sip, his nose immediately wrinkling at the taste. He lowered the cup as Shaun poured himself some more. "You said there were lemons?"

"Yes. But be careful, at most, I would suggest one or two slices."

He rose silently and crossed the floor, ignoring the Templar knight walking through the wall. He squeezed out one lemon slice and took a testing sip. It did taste better. Rather than ruin it, he walked back over and sat near Shaun.

"It still doesn't taste that great."

Shaun scoffed. "An acquired taste. I started drinking it because of stomach problems as a young lad."

"Really?" He took another tiny sip.

Shaun nodded. "It helped. I used to have inflammatory bowel disease. It helped control it. I still have the occasional problem with it when I forget to take some time to make some tea. However, the medications I'm on help the most."

"I haven't seen you take any medications." He took another sip. The drink was quickly growing on him.

"I usually keep them hidden. Right now, though, I've run out, and until the Order can get me more, I have to make sure I keep drinking it."

Another sip, a little larger this time, he noted. "How does it help?"

"I'm not entirely sure of the science behind it, but it does help the inflammation."

He nodded once and looked at the teacup, now half-empty. "Does whatever you have hurt? When will they get you new medication?"

He swore he heard Shaun chuckle, and he looked over at the historian, who had the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips as he looked back at him. "It will be here soon, rest assured, and as for the disease, I'll spare you the details, but yes, it does hurt, and it is extraordinarily unpleasant."

Desmond twisted his lips. "But, Rebecca told me you were gay… Does it affect… You know…"

"Sex?" Shaun looked utterly amused at Desmond's expense. He nodded and took another sip of the tea. "Only if I bottom, and even then, only if I have an active flare-up."

Desmond looked into the cup he held, then held it out.

"Want more?"

He nodded, tilting his head ever so slightly.

"Yeah, it's not that bad with the lemon in it."

Shaun chuckled again—it must have been Desmond's lucky night. He didn't get to hear the British man laugh much, if ever. Perhaps the tea was, actually, healthier than he expected, if it had that kind of effect on him. He'd have to start drinking it with him more often. He got up and brought over the little plate of sliced lemons, and they drank the tea in a comfortable silence until the last of it was gone, and his lips twitched at the soft sigh Shaun let out.

"Right, I suppose I should be back to working."

But the British man gave no signs of moving, and Desmond set his cup down, feeling slightly bolder as Shaun stared into his cup. Desmond knew that look, the look that said that he didn't want to do anything else. He found the look often on the historian's face, especially at nighttime, when he remained awake later than the girls to finish some sort of technical thing. He took the cup from his hands gently and set it a ways away, moving the teapot, the lemon plate, and his cup next to it. Then, he gently tugged Shaun into lying down with him on the sleeping bag.

"What are you doing, you prat?" Shaun spit, but Desmond noticed he made no move to get away.

He adjusted the sleeping bag, zipping it up around the two of them and resting one arm around Shaun's waist. "You know what else is also healthy? Even healthier than disgusting tea?"

"Tea is not disgusting, ingrate, but I suppose I should humor you. What is?"

"Sleep." He ignored the man's weak protests as he snuggled against his back, happier than a lark. "And I think it's time you got some."

Shaun fell silent, before Desmond felt the man flip around and cuddle in close, uttering, "A bunch of bollocks, this is."

Desmond grinned and twined their legs together. "And so is tea, but I think I'll start drinking it more. Fair deal?"

He felt Shaun smile against him, and he grinned as he closed his eyes. "I think I can handle that," Shaun muttered. "You start drinking tea, and I get a little more shut-eye."

Desmond felt himself drifting off quickly cuddled with the historian. If drinking that—not so—nasty shit got him more nights like this, he could manage it.


End file.
